All Brand New {BoyxBoy}

All Brand New {2}

My dreams last night were vivid depictions of waking up at home over and over and over again, unable to escape. The front door teased me as my fingers were unable to reach for the door handle. My mother didn't see me. I was invisible. Invisible, trapped and impossibly frustrated.

Those anxiety dreams cause me more exhaustion this morning than an all-nighter would have done but there is some comfort in waking up under the soft pink blanket covering me. It isn't mine. It smells like strawberries.

I'm awake before Ollie, possibly before anyone. I sit up, shrugging off the blanket and stretching up to the ceiling. My neck hurts. On my nightstand is my diary, shut, pen laying parallel next to it. And a full glass of water.

I am reminded of Elliot's comment from last night, something about Ollie not being any good for hospitality. I have my doubts.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to tug through the knotty waves until they pull free. I have a feeling my comb is at the bottom of my bag and I don't wish to wake Ollie by rustling around like a rummaging racoon.

I take a sip of water and listen to the early birds sing. So sweet and soft, like windchimes through a gentle breeze.

I check the time on my phone, five-thirty-seven in the morning. It desperately needs to be charged. The wooden floor is cold under my feet, I kneel by my bed and pull out the smaller of the two bags. I try my best to stay silent as I unzip the front pocket and pull out the charging cable and adapter. I don't know how light a sleeper the boy is. I'm not used to sharing a room. It feels invasive. Worse is that I'm the one invading.

I plug the charger into my phone, relieved to know it isn't going to die on me before breakfast.

Eggs and bacon on toast are served by nine. Ollie had walked me down to breakfast this morning (he insisted). I let him ramble on about how excited he is that I'm here. He came here to work on his digital illustrations. Something about making webcomics. I think he goes on to tell me about various incidents that have happened around the house since he got here last summer but I tune out. Ollie eventually picks up on the fact that I'm not really paying attention so he excuses himself to find someone willing to listen while I look around at the new surroundings.

Strangely, the house doesn't feel empty despite its size. It's constantly warm here with the cosy fireplace in the living room and the constant buzz of young artists.

The small town of Athenside, Oregon is known to remain on the colder side despite the impending summer.

I hear something unlike the chatter of boys and girls finishing their meals and making morning plans. It chimes, notes weaving together like threads in a loom. A piano, I realise. No one notices me slip out of my chair at the dining table. I track the sound back to the music room I'd been briefly introduced to. The entrance sat tucked away behind the foyer staircase, an almost hidden room. The door is barely open. I slip my fingers in between the gap and pull it a little closer to me so I can hear better without giving myself away. No one had shown me inside yet.

Soft notes flutter from the keys to my ears. I close my eyes and imagine cherry blossom petals falling across a lake in alignment with a gentle breeze. Soft white grass underfoot. The musician, so engrossed in their art that nothing else is real. The visual is something I'd like to write down.

It stops.

I open my eyes, face to face with a boy much taller than myself pushing the door wider.

"I-I'm sorry," I stutter, taking a step back. I must have looked awfully strange in the moments between the silence and the time it took for him to get to the door.